It’s such a pleasant morning that I decide to take a different route for a change. When I twist the steering wheel, the sun swings around from behind me to the right-hand window. The low morning light slowly flows up my body, gently warming my right side to remind me that spring’s finally here. It was a really cold winter. In February, even Tokyo got heavy snowfall. I kept my winter tires on the whole time, and obstinate blankets of snow lingered in the shade, getting blacker and dirtier. But when March came around and the Kanto area left the long tunnel of rain, the air prickling against your skin softened, and the pale green of grass and trees slowly began to color the landscape. “Long spring rains” strikes me as a very apt phrase. I set a finger on the switch, opening the driver’s side window a crack. The smell of spring promptly blows into the car. It’s a special chill unique to this season, suffused with that sense of something new on the horizon. The emotions of those times—the excitement and sorrow and romance and anxiety and anticipation of entrance ceremonies and graduations—rise inside me again all at once. Even after I’ve attended so many school events for my two sons, the scent of spring carries to me my own adolescence. Excitement is bubbling up inside me, and Eeeeek, I have to buy something new for spring and go to the salon and mixers and dates and out to explore and drink! My head is full of prospects and desires. The traffic light in front of me turns red, and I slowly step on the brake, lecturing myself: No, no, you’re not as young as you used to be. No more mixers anyway. I take a deep breath. Breathe in, breathe out. God, the weather’s beautiful. Leaning over the steering wheel, I look up. The sky is the color of blue ink dissolved in plenty of water, pale and transparent, and the first scattered cherry blossoms are closer to white than pink. The young leaves that have just begun to bud on the miscellaneous trees are the pale green of the first stroke of a careful painter. Oh, I see. And then it hits me. Those shoes my son showed me were meant for a spring day like this one. They were shoes for someone who was beginning to walk in a new place on a promising spring morning. I wonder what she’s like. Shifting my right foot to the accelerator, I consider the question with a little grin. What kind of girl has he fallen madly, probably hopelessly in love with? What kind of girl made him want to give her spring shoes? * * * “Don’t think of me as your son,” my son said. It was a snowy night, so it must have been nearly two months ago. I’d come home late, eaten the dinner he’d made, and taken a bath, and I was sitting at the kitchen table for a tiny drink before going to bed. It was already past one in the morning. “Hmm?” I looked at him. He was deadly serious. “I want an outside opinion. Could you take a look at these?” With that, my son set a pair of women’s shoes on the table. They smelled ever so faintly of leather and glue. “My, those are lovely!” I said, and I meant it. They were rather small pumps, with heels about two and a half inches tall. The toes were pastel pink, the bodies were a flesh color so pale, it was nearly white, and the heels were lemon yellow, as if they’d been exposed to the sun. They had long straps that would wind around the ankles, with little leaf shapes made of apple-green leather sewn to the tips. The color scheme was pale and unreliable, and the shoes themselves were so delicate, they looked as if they might dissolve into thin air and vanish if they were left here overnight. “…You made these?” I couldn’t imagine them sitting on display in a mass retail store. And if they had, they would probably have gotten eclipsed by other, gaudier shoes. These were clearly shoes for someone. “Yeah, but…I don’t want that to bias you. I want to know what you think of them, as a woman.” My son said it again. His face was red, and he was staring at the floor. He sounded so serious, I was afraid he might break down in tears. My heart ached; he had worked on these for dear life. “Let’s see…” I picked up one of the shoes. It was as light as it looked. The feel of the soft, velvety leather made me think of a small newborn animal with a rapid heartbeat. I tilted it at different angles, closed my hand around the heel, touched the stitches in the leather. These were probably the first women’s shoes he’d managed to finish. What should I tell him…? “They’re a little small for me, and I really doubt I could wear them, but I like the design. They aren’t showy, but they still have a presence. If these were on display at a studio I liked, they’d catch my eye,” I said, then looked at my son. There was so much urgency in his eyes as he waited for me to continue, I worried he might blow up. T-talk about pressure. You’re my kid, but this is hard. “For the work of a high school hobbyist, I think they’re very well done. And I’m not just saying that because I’m your mother.” “And if they weren’t?” he asked, as if he was bracing himself. Here we go, I thought, giving up. What you want to hear is the next part, isn’t it? This is my job as your mom. “—Let’s see. I don’t think you could sell them, and actually walking in them would be a little hard. They might only last a few days before they broke. Although I can’t say for sure.” My son’s lips parted as if he wanted to say something, then closed again. As he waited, his eyes were almost teary. Sheesh, relax! No need to worry so much about everything, I think, and go on. “The leather is wrinkled, and there are lots of fine scratches, but that’s part of the charm of handmade things. As long as you aren’t selling them, I mean. But—okay, look here. When you look at them from the back, the heels are attached so that they don’t quite mirror each other.” I turned the heels to face my son. “The way they bear her weight will differ between one side and the other, and the more she uses them, the more I think the heels will lean. I also think the middle of the insole is probably too soft.” “The shank?” “Yes, is that what it’s called? A shank?” As I spoke, I put a finger into the shoe and pressed down hard on the instep. The whole thing warped. “You see? It’s probably going to bend whenever she takes a step. So…” “So they really aren’t practical.” He finished my sentence wearily. “Probably not,” I admitted. My son gave a little laugh. “If you’re already catching all that, Mom, a pro would probably demolish them. I guess studying by myself really isn’t going to cut it.” He looked relieved. He’s good at letting go and moving on; it’s one of the great things about him. I was relieved, too. “Man, I’d say a sixteen-year-old boy who taught himself how to make high heels is plenty weird.” “Ha-ha.” He gave a brief laugh. “Thanks for the feedback. That was really helpful. You’re having a nightcap, right, Mom? Want me to make you some snacks?” “Yaaay! Thanks, Takao.” Ahh, yes. Home is so sweet, I thought, gazing at Takao’s back as he opened a can in the kitchen. At my younger lover’s house, where I’d lived until the end of the previous year, all the cooking had been my job, without exception. Shouta, my oldest son, and I had fought constantly. He’d moved out, and I’d returned after several months away and was living here with Takao. Now that it was just the two of us, though, our days were very peaceful and pleasant. The cleaning and laundry had gradually turned into Takao’s jobs, too, after I ran away. Ahh, it’s so nice here. I’m glad I had a second kid. “…What?” Sensing my eyes on him, Takao turned around. “Ohh, I was just thinking I was glad I made you.” “Don’t say it like that. Here.” Turning red, he thunked a small bowl down on the table in front of me, a little roughly. Male virgins are so cute when you tease them (and I’m pretty sure he is one). The bowl held a row of canned sardines and shredded pickled plums rolled up in green shiso leaves. “So who are you giving those to?” I asked Takao, starting on my second glass of shochu. “What?” Takao looked up from his tea. “You know. Who are the shoes for? Your girlfriend?” “Wha…” This kid turns red at the drop of a hat. “I—I don’t have a girlfriend,” Takao protested hastily. “Whoa, then you’re telling me you made shoes for a crush?” Whoops, too much pressure. Oh, virgins. And teenage boys in love. Takao looked down sullenly; he seemed cross. Oh, other people’s romances are so much fun. I took a gulp of shochu, then reached for the snacks with my chopsticks. Damn, why do pickled plums and shiso go together so well? “So, this girl. I bet she’s older than you, isn’t she?” I pointed at him with my chopsticks, grinning, and Takao flinched and looked at me. “Those shoes aren’t for a high schooler. C’mon, where did you meet her? Is she in college? How much older is she?” Takao turned beet red, scratched at his earlobe, slurped his tea, and refused to look at me as he started rambling. “Uh, umm, I’m pretty sure she’s eighteen or nineteen, so two or three years, maybe?” Liar. I could sense it from the way he was acting. She might be a working adult, maybe even a decade or so older than he was. Poor thing. I don’t think that one’s gonna work out, kiddo. I was getting a real kick out of this. “Hmm. You wanna drink a bit?” “No way! I’m going to bed.” Aw, he got away. Man, Takao’s all grown up now, too, I thought as I drank by myself that evening, indulging in the emotions of that little revelation. Takao hasn’t mentioned shoes since then. * * * “Listen, I told you yesterday: Counter services are only available until five o’clock. Remember?” I can hear Kobayashi’s shrill voice. A female student says something in protest. Kobayashi yells, “I told you, no means no!” and then there’s a swish as she closes the reception window curtain. Smacking the switch to turn off the fluorescent lights behind the counter, she marches back over to the desk beside mine in her blue tiered skirt. “What was that?” I’ve been making up a list of items to order from the bookstore, but I pause to ask her my question. Her shapely eyebrows draw together in annoyance as she answers. “She just brought the tuition for last term’s classes. Now.” “For last term? But the payment deadline was a full month ago.” “Yes, and we’ve sent her two reminders. And she brought cash, even though we told her over and over that she had to transfer it into the bank account! And the revenue division’s already closed anyway.” She starts getting ready to go home, moving as if she’s not sure what to do with her pent-up anger. I choose not to point out that we’ve still got thirty minutes before it’s really time to leave. “Hey, could I see her file?” Without waiting for her response, I take a peek at her computer. “Which one is she?” She looks annoyed, but she points her out anyway. “This one, Momoka Nakajima.” Scanning the rows of figures, I yelp, “Wait, wait, today’s her final deadline!” I rush out of the office and run after the girl walking down the corridor. “Ms. Nakajima!” Momoka Nakajima turns around, and I catch a strong whiff of vanilla perfume. “What?” “Listen, if you don’t pay your tuition today, they’re going to take you off the register!” “Huh?” Momoka Nakajima just sounds grumpy, as if she doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation, and I take her back to the office and explain. At a university, if you don’t pay your tuition, you get taken off the register—and that basically means you’re fired. The payment period technically ended a month ago, and the grace period was over today, and she was supposed to deposit the required amount in the bank by three this afternoon. All of which meant that bringing cash after five wasn’t going to cut it. Momoka Nakajima, who has a sweet face and is wearing light, perfectly applied makeup, angrily asks me what she’s supposed to do now. Listen, if you had time to do all that makeup, you must have had time to go to the bank. But I just tell her that given the circumstances, we’ll accept her payment in cash, just this once. I take the envelope she holds out to me and count the bills, thinking up an excuse to give to the finance department as I work. …Huh? I recount them three times. “…You’re short by twenty thousand yen.” “Seriously? What am I going to do? That’s all I have today…” Momoka Nakajima turns her damsel-in-distress makeup job toward me and glances at the nametag that’s hanging from my neck. “Ms. Akizuki, could you pay it for me for now? I’ll totally pay you back tomorrow—er, next week!” I fight back the sudden urge to throw the envelope at her, and after about five minutes of discussion, in exchange for her parents’ address and phone number, I take ¥20,000 out of my wallet. “That was ridiculous,” Kobayashi says, after I’ve sent Momoka Nakajima on her way and returned to my desk. “If she gets taken off the register, it’s her own fault. She’s not a child anymore; I don’t think there’s any need for us to go that far for her.” “…Kobayashi, had you noticed?” “Huh?” “That today was her final deadline.” Kobayashi doesn’t answer the question and snaps back, “That was a chance for her to learn how society works. It would’ve done her more good in the end.” “I don’t think that’s true,” I say. I’m gazing at Kobayashi’s prettily decorated fingernails. She’s an attractive new graduate, and to me, she looks as if she could be Momoka Nakajima’s classmate. “I don’t think universities are like the customer service window at city hall or a bank. Of course the school is a corporation as well, but it’s an educational institution first and foremost. University employees are just like the faculty: We earn our pay for doing things that support students’ growth and help them graduate into society. We need to be on the students’ side, not the administration’s.” “So we should spoil them, is what you’re saying.” Rolling her eyes, Kobayashi grabs her bag—a little designer number with a yellow monogram pattern—and starts for the door without even saying good-bye. I want to lob a pencil at her back, but I manage to control myself. “You should’ve thrown that pencil.” Shimizu laughs. He takes a drink of his oolong tea. “Well, I couldn’t do that. I gotta work with her.” The restaurant’s cramped interior is filled with noise and the smoke from grilling meat. “I’m still mad, though. Kids these days are so eager to punish other people—they don’t let anything slide for anyone except themselves. They don’t even think about how many times others have forgiven them, and yet they demand morals and ethics and their particular brand of common sense from others. They’re proud, but they’re starving for validation, and yet they don’t want to recognize the value in other people.” After my rant, I gulp down a swig of beer. “You’ve been holding that in for a while,” Shimizu comments cheerfully. “I think I see where the Kobayashi girl is coming from, too, though.” I glare at him, but he just gives me a conciliatory smile and elaborates. “Students these days are full of themselves, you know? They think of themselves as customers. Doesn’t it make you want to teach them a lesson?” “No. Nobody has the right to teach other people a lesson,” I retort, leaning over the table for emphasis, just as a platter of meat arrives. “Well, never mind, Reimi. I’ll grill you some Korean-style spareribs.” Shimizu’s bony hands busily line up spareribs on the grill. That alone is enough to melt my irritation away. “Hey, Reimi, the tripe is incredible.” “This skirt steak is actually edible, Shimizu.” “We’re still okay on rice, aren’t we? Let’s get some Korean lettuce.” Watching Shimizu stuff his face with meat makes me feel as if I’m watching a child eat. Yes, that’s right, eat up. Technically, at thirty-six, he’s already in middle age, but he seems like a student. Partly because he’s always in street clothes. He’s a thin man with short-cropped hair and plastic-framed glasses. He sometimes looks even more like a kid than my oldest, Shouta, who’s twenty-seven this year. “By the way, Reimi, is there a reason you took a job at a university?” As I answer, I wrap some meat in a lettuce leaf for Shimizu. “Well, I told you I had my oldest when I was in college, remember? I took about a year off from school around when he was born. After that, I went back to school while I raised him, and I graduated, and when I was looking around for an employer…” “Oh, that’s right. Your professor gave you an introduction to the university.” “Mm-hmm, he found me a job as the school affairs assistant for a lab. I wanted to keep working even after I married, and I liked Japanese literature. Academia itself, really.” “Hmm.” “Society was still pretty straitlaced back then, and getting married and giving birth while you were in school was pretty unusual. This was just after the Equal Employment Opportunity Law was amended, but in practice, I think somebody in my position would have had a hard time finding a job with an ordinary company.” I pick up my mug and drain what’s left of my beer. “So I’m grateful to that professor, and for the university’s response. ‘Academic freedom is guaranteed.’ Educational institutions should be the guardians of diversity, et cetera.” After that little speech, I order a draft beer from a passing server. “What about you, Shimizu?” “Okay, get me a refill.” “All right, one beer and one oolong tea, please.” Shimizu doesn’t drink. “It’s not that I can’t,” he told me once, when I pressed him as to how on earth he managed to reset his mood without alcohol. “I’m not sure how to put it; I just don’t feel the need.” At the table across from us, a couple is picking at their meat. The girl is wearing contemporary makeup and reminds me of Momoka Nakajima and Kobayashi. The guy’s in his midtwenties and wearing a suit; he looks as if he’s on his way home from the office. From what I can see, I’d say they’ve been going out for about six months. After this, they’ll probably stop by a convenience store, pick up snacks and tomorrow’s breakfast, then go to one of their apartments, his or hers, and sleep in the same bed. They’ll continue their relationship, fighting about silly little things and getting jealous, and in about a year or so, they’ll hit a turning point. They’ll either split up or get married, or maybe their nebulous relationship will continue. All of a sudden, I wonder how we look to other people: a forty-eight-year-old woman and her boyfriend twelve years her junior, in a fairly cheap yakiniku restaurant. “Come to think of it, isn’t your younger son almost in college, Reimi?” The tripe on the grill sizzles and shrinks, broiling over the flames. While he asks his question, Shimizu uses his chopsticks to peer at the underside of the meat, as if keeping a careful eye on its progress. “Yes, he’s in his second year of high school,” I answer. Shimizu isn’t the jealous type, so I can talk to him freely about my ex-husband and my children. I’ve told him my story: When I was still in school, I had an unplanned pregnancy with a trading company employee five years older than me, and I decided to go through with it; I married the man, whose name was Takashi, and we chose our children’s names—Shouta, Takao—using the shiritori game, linking their first and last syllables in a chain. My husband’s overseas assignment was extended and we gradually drifted apart; we got divorced when my second son started middle school. Shimizu always listens to me with a tranquil expression. It’s as if I’m telling him about a natural phenomenon—how the sun evaporates seawater and turns it into clouds, and the westerlies carry it until it becomes rain and falls on Japan—and he’ll say “Hmm” and listen with interest. “I don’t really understand why people get jealous of each other,” he told me once. Still, I think, as I stare at the grilling meat. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t get jealous, doesn’t get mad—does he actually like me at all? Does he actually care for me that deeply, or is he simply indifferent? When I drink with him, that question always comes to mind, and today is no exception. But I stuff it back down and keep talking about my son. “But here’s the thing—instead of going on to college, he says he wants to study shoemaking.” “Shoes? Meaning he wants to be a shoemaker?” “I guess.” Shimizu seems to be lost in thought. “…That is a little unusual. You’d make even less of a living with that job than as a designer. I’m sure he wants to work on the creative side, not in a factory or anything, right? He wants a studio, et cetera, et cetera.” “Yeah, most likely.” “Sorry if this is rude, but he’s not just trying to escape the university entrance exams, is he?” “No, I don’t think so. He’s made several pairs already in the past couple years.” “Huh? At home, by himself?” “Uh-huh. It looks like he’s using money from his part-time job to get all the tools he needs.” When I tell him that, Shimizu gets excited and starts peppering me with unusually enthusiastic questions: “What sort of shoes is he making?” “What do you think, as his mother?” I wonder if my graphic designer boyfriend feels a sort of affinity with him. “He’s the real deal,” he says. “Takao, wasn’t it? He’s got the passion, at least. There are lots of young kids who want to become something. They tend to ask lots of questions online, go out and teach themselves all the critics’ jargon, and then rip apart the works of others. And it’s not that I don’t get how they feel, but…” Carefully watching the meat on the grill, Shimizu speaks quietly, as if he’s reminding himself of this, too. “But when people really, really want to make something with their whole heart, before they ask any questions or say anything to anybody, they’re already making it.” By the time I get home, it’s midnight. When I open the door, I hear my older son call, “Welcome back” from the kitchen. “You’re late. Were you out drinking?” Shouta is sitting at the table by himself, drinking my shochu. He’s removed his tie and is wearing a pale-cyan dress shirt; the pickles he apparently bought at the convenience store are sitting on the table, along with one of the smartphones his company deals in. In the light of the old public apartment’s dim lamp, he looks almost like a stranger I just happened to spot on a commuter train. “Mm-hmm, I had dinner with Shimizu. But we don’t usually see you around these parts, Shouta. What’s up?” “I came by to pick up my summer clothes and stuff.” “Hmm,” I say. I go into my room, change out of my suit and into a pink hoodie, and come back to the kitchen. I don’t really want to drink more alcohol, but my hands feel empty without it, and I take a can of beer out of the fridge. I open the pull tab as I sit down across from Shouta. It’s blindingly obvious that we’re both in bad moods. For a long, awkward silence, all we do is sip our drinks. Hey, he’s the kid here, not me, I remember, and I try to draw him out with “So? How’ve you been?” “Eh, nothing to report, really. What about you, Mom?” “I’m fine—just trucking along. What about Takao? Did you have dinner together?” “No, I didn’t stop by until after dinner. He washed the dishes, folded the laundry, and went to bed.” “Mm.” The conversation promptly peters out. Shouta doesn’t like hearing about my boyfriend, and I don’t want to hear about the girl he’s living with. We both know that very well. “…This kitchen sure is dark. How old is this place?” Shouta asks. “About forty years, I think,” I tell him. “Coming here is always kinda depressing. It’s dark, it’s poorly constructed, and it just feels cheap. Like those old dishes, or the sticker residue on the pillars. You should really scrub this place down.” “It’s fine like this. Don’t touch it.” “I’m not touching it.” What did you come here for? I swallow my reply along with my beer. Sitting here across from my grumpy son, I’m slipping into the memory of that long, dark night when Takeshi Fujisawa and I talked about divorcing. Shouta is older now than Takeshi was when I married him. “He’s already in his second year of high school, huh.” Shouta’s tone softens just a little. He’s talking about Takao. “Sure is.” “It’s about time for him to start thinking about after graduation, isn’t it? Have you talked with Takao about it?” I finally catch on. Shouta was waiting for me because he wanted to talk about this. I pick up the beer can in front of me, realize it is already empty, stand up, and get a shochu glass. “He says he isn’t going to university. Sounds like he’s trying to decide between a trade school or foreign exchange.” “Wait, seriously?” Shouta’s voice gets louder. “Foreign exchange? The hell?” I return to my chair with the glass. I wait for Shouta to pour my shochu for me, but he doesn’t move. I end up pouring it myself and adding hot water. “I mean, he can go into shoemaking if that’s what he wants, but he should still go to university first, right? What do you think about all this, Mom?” “Well, I don’t know. I’m planning to take my time and talk it over with him, but it’s his life, you know?” Here comes another fight, I think, sighing internally. Shouta and I always end up quarreling over Takao. It’s like we’re a married couple with different opinions about our son’s education. “I can’t believe I have to say this, Mom,” Shouta says with judgment in his voice, “but Takao’s still just sixteen, and you’re the only parent he’s got. Please, for the love of God, act like one. He’s not your housekeeper.” “I’m not treating him like a housekeeper.” Shouta ignores my objection. “Like, sit down with him and talk about the huge difference between the average salaries of high school graduates and college graduates. Let him know how hard it is to find a job when there’s a break in your résumé.” “I’m going to. Soon.” “If you’ve got time to take a struggling designer out to yakiniku, you could take Takao along and have these conversations.” That hits a nerve, and I throw my empty beer can at Shouta. It bounces off his shoulder with a dull little tonk. “Whoa, hey! What the hell?!” “What’s your problem?! You’re the one shacking up with a struggling actress without a plan!” “Don’t change the subject!” Shouta sounds angry. There, see? You don’t give me an inch. Even though you came out of my body. Even though I nursed you at my breast. “I’m not! We’re talking about how to live a life. By the time I was your age, I was working and raising an elementary schooler!” A wave of self-pity hits me, bringing tears with it. “Yeah, that was me. Remember?” “It sure was! You were so little and genuine, and then out of nowhere you turned into some strange man. I don’t even know if you’re on my side or not!” My own words break the dam, and the tears spill over. My head goes fuzzy, and a sweet sense of comfort spreads through my chest. I take another gulp of shochu. “Argh, come on, not again,” Shouta mutters. “Look,” he says aloud, “I’m sorry, all right? You’re an adult; you can’t break down this easy. And don’t drink so much. Go take a bath and go to sleep.” “Don’t wanna. I’m gonna drink more,” I say, pouring shochu into my glass. “Gimme a break,” Shouta’s voice says, sounding farther away than it did. When did it happen? I think again. When did everybody go so far away? When did they leave me behind? * * * Children grow up so fast that I can’t hope to keep up. That’s what I think after the parent-teacher-student conference at school. I’m conscious of how tall my son is as he walks beside me. “Takao, how old will you be next month?” “Eighteen.” That means I’ll be turning fifty-one. As I look up at the low, ash-gray sky above the vivid yellow gingko trees along the street, the sigh leaves my mouth in a white cloud. It happened in a twinkling. No wonder Momoka Nakajima’s changed, too. After narrowly managing to stay on the register a year and a half ago, Momoka Nakajima is currently in her third year at university. Even now, when we pass each other at school, she bows to me politely. Lately, I hear she’s been enthusiastically frequenting the library so she can get into an especially competitive seminar. My coworker Kobayashi spends her days lecturing new employees like a veteran now. Shouta is still dawdling in an informal live-in relationship that won’t go anywhere (I think). During the past year and a half, I’ve bought a new car, since my old one was almost due for an expensive inspection; had two gastroscopy procedures; bought two new suits and three new pairs of shoes at shops I frequent; and made several visits to watering holes that may or may not have been appropriate and managed to seal several incidents that I’ve decided never to think of again into the depths of my memory. I broke up with Shimizu. By doing all of this, I took the surges of emotion that welled up from day to day, and I swaddled them in liquor and paperbacks and old skirts, and gently buried them in the damp soil of this city. And now winter’s on its way again. With Christmas coming next month, the town is decked out with colorful decorations and fizzing with excitement. My son is walking next to me, but he doesn’t see any of it. He’s skipped right over New Year’s and his high school graduation, and he’s looking at what lies beyond them. Italy, hmm? I think. I’ve never been there. Come to think of it, I’ve never been overseas at all. That’s unexpected. I would have thought that I was the type who’d go far away, not Takao. I read all those books when I was a child, and I yearned so much for foreign lands. When I grew up, I thought I was going to live in some distant country. After I had Shouta at twenty-one, though, while I fought to handle the pressures of daily life, time flew past in the blink of an eye. I’ve been living in Tokyo since I was born. Nearly all of my life has been spent within an area so small, it’d only take you an hour to drive around the outer edges. My son is leaping out of that circle with unnerving ease. When I get called into the student guidance office, Mr. Itou, my son’s homeroom teacher, seems a little bewildered. “Erm, you’re his mother?” “Yes.” “Please, have a seat.” Oh! Did I look like his older sister? I think happily. Yay! I considered wearing a conservative, PTA-type suit, but instead I decided to go for it and wear a pleated above-the-knee skirt, and it was the right choice. It’s charcoal gray, with lace at the back, an umber-colored sash belt at the waist, and a white blouse with a fairly large bow at the collar. I haven’t been to a high school in a while. I’m happy to go, but worried that I’m a little too happy. When I sit down in one of those good old school chairs, Takao looks at me in shock. “…Is that cosplay?” he whispers. “No, it is not!” I hiss back. “So, Ms. Akizuki.” Clearing his throat awkwardly, Mr. Itou begins. “As I expect you’re aware, Takao says he doesn’t intend to take the university entrance exam. He’d like to study abroad at a university in Florence and learn shoemaking there. He intends to fit in as much part-time work as possible before spring, during the remainder of high school, to save up for his school expenses. Did your family discuss all this before he came to this conclusion?” Wow, this really is a parent-teacher-student conference! Ooh, it’s so exciting. I make my voice serious, and I tell him: “Yes. My son initially brought that up quite a while back, during his first year of high school. I was pretty surprised, but we’ve talked it over a lot since then, and now I’m convinced.” Mr. Itou’s expression hardens. “With all due respect,” he begins, not even trying to disguise that this is a lecture. “With all due respect, neither shoemaking nor studying abroad in Italy sounds like a very practical choice to me. There’s no precedent for either at our school, and if he wants to go on exchange, he should be able to find plenty of opportunities for it while he’s at university.” Oh, yes, I remember these kinds of teachers, I think, feeling oddly nostalgic as I listen to the man’s deep, gym-teacherly voice. At this point, his overzealous dedication is charming, but back then, he would have scared me to death. When I steal a glance at Takao, he’s looking down with a neutral expression. My, he really is special. If I were a student, I would have broken down just facing this tough, tracksuited teacher. “Ms. Akizuki. I’ve investigated this myself. Planning and design at a manufacturer may be one thing, but in Japan, the need for shoemakers in the industry is in decline. Manufacturing bases have been moved completely to developing countries in Asia, and Japan doesn’t have a culture of bespoke shoes for individual customers. If Takao still wants to pursue this even with that knowledge, then of course his resolution is admirable. However, those strong feelings are another reason why he should be able to search for a way while attending university in Japan as well. Studying abroad immediately after graduation, particularly in a country where English isn’t the main language, is a big risk. Anyone can get into a language school, but he may not be able to qualify for a university over there, and even if he does, he might not be able to graduate. Even assuming he graduates, once he returns home, he’ll have a much harder time finding a job than other new graduates. That’s a basic statistic.” His voice is so low, it seems to reverberate in my toes, and Mr. Itou’s eyes go to Takao. Takao looks up. “Akizuki. I think you should go to a Japanese university. Just so you can leave as many possibilities open for yourself as possible. What do you think?” Takao opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks like he’s slowly searching for words that he’s shut away somewhere deep inside himself. Through the closed window, the afterschool murmur seeps in like the smell of diluted sweat. Suddenly, I feel like I’m wearing a school uniform again. The texture and smell of the winter uniform’s thick navy-blue fabric rises in my mind so clearly, it’s as if I’d put my arms through its sleeves that morning. It’s been over thirty years since then, and yet this world hasn’t faded the tiniest bit. It’s startling. “I’m very happy that my teachers and family are kind enough to be concerned about me,” Takao begins slowly. “As you say, shoemaking is probably a very hard field to break into. That’s why I know I’ll never accomplish it if I don’t try with everything I have. I don’t want to make excuses about wanting to have it all, or avoiding risk, or leaving possibilities open.” Mr. Itou looks as if he wants to interrupt, but Takao keeps going. “I want to go to Florence because I want to work with shoes professionally, not as a hobby. Shoes, particularly women’s shoes, are fashion. There are clear trends, and if you don’t follow those trends, your business won’t succeed. Europe is the heart of both fashion and technology. Even when it comes to raw materials, European trade fairs are what determine the year’s trends. All the techniques and materials involved in shoemaking are concentrated in Florence. That means this isn’t about whether I want to go overseas or not. Studying abroad is just necessary, plain and simple.” As we’re walking down the slope toward the station, it starts to drizzle, and I take Takao into a pub that happens to catch my eye. “Hey, wait, I’m in my school uniform,” he protests, but I drag him in. “You’re going to Europe, remember? This is practice. It’s fine as long as you don’t drink.” We sit down at the end of a table in the back. I order a Moretti, to set the mood, and get Takao a cola. “Your teacher was pretty cute,” I tell him. “Wha—Cute? Who was? You mean Mr. Itou?” “He never let up. He’s genuinely worried about you.” “…He was my homeroom teacher during my first year, but today was the first time I’ve talked to him that much. I don’t know him all that well.” For a little while after that, we gaze out the window in silence. It’s gloomy inside the pub, and the big window facing the street looks almost like an enormous aquarium. Beyond the glass, colorful umbrellas swim back and forth in their unsteady paths. I don’t think Takao’s determination would have changed whether we had a parent-student-teacher interview or not, I think. Even when he was little, he was the type of kid who played with my shoes. I have quite a few pairs, for fun, and somewhere along the way, cleaning and maintaining them became Takao’s job. By the time he was in middle school, he’d started to take apart the ones I didn’t wear anymore. His interest had shifted from shape to structure. He’d use a hair dryer and electric hot plate to remove the glue from women’s shoes, take out the shanks, and split the heels and then put them all back together. By the end of his second year of high school, Takao had started to search on his own for the course he’d take after graduation. He’d gone to several information sessions for shoemaking schools in Japan; he’d met and talked with actual shoemakers. He made me introduce him to a shoe workshop I was familiar with. The more professionals he spoke with, the firmer his resolve to study abroad grew. He identified several Italian language schools that were affiliated with Florentine universities, requested materials in Italian, pored over them, and narrowed the schools down to one. He withdrew from the savings he’d earned and wired the money for the entrance fees, and now he already had permission to start school there next year. He said he was planning to go to the language school for half a year and then take the entrance exam for an art college. He’d buckled down and checked every item off the list all by himself, all while going to high school, working part-time job shifts, and studying Italian through radio lessons. “By the way…” After picking up my second Moretti at the counter, I go back to the table and sit down, asking the question that’s just popped into my head. “What happened to the girl with the spring shoes?” “Huh?” There’s a little pause, and then Takao turns red. I start grinning. “You know. Her. The older girl you had a crush on?” “N-nothing’s happened, not really.” “Still unrequited?” He’s clammed up, looking cross, and he won’t answer. Hmm. “So you still like her, huh? How about that.” “…” He raises his cola bottle to his lips, but it’s empty. “Did you tell her about studying abroad?” “…Not yet.” “Hmm. Well, can’t always have everything.” As I tell him that, I’m remembering what he said in the student guidance office. His older lady friend and his dream of being a shoemaker: Neither is a simple thing, and he may not be able to have them both. Maybe he wants to learn to make shoes she’ll really be able to walk in this time. The rain lets up, and when we leave the pub, the whole city is enveloped in a faint lemon-colored light. When I look at the western sky, rays of evening sun are slanting through gaps in the gray clouds. Oh, that’s right. I remember suddenly. That’s right. I was like that, too. I was the same. It was right around this season, on a day like this one. I made up my mind, and I traveled here by myself. It was the end of autumn, the year I turned twenty. I went to the gynecology clinic alone, and they told me I was pregnant with Shouta. I walked back to the station with no idea what else to do. Cold rain was falling that day, and I had my umbrella up. The wet gingko leaves carpeting the asphalt muted the sensation that I was walking on the ground at all. After a while, I suddenly realized that the rain had stopped. I paused on the sloping road, looking toward the brightest part of the sky. The roofs of the distant mixed-use buildings gleamed in the light of the sunset. Several crows were skimming around the gleaming antennas. I’m going to have this baby, I thought as I gazed at the faraway light. Even if nobody approves, even if I’m all alone, I’m going to have it. No excitement, no resolution, no preparation—the decision was as capricious as taking a different route for a change. Before I knew it, all thought of avoiding risk, or leaving possibilities open for my life, had vanished. Ever since then, I’ve been traveling. I haven’t boarded any airplanes or ships, but my journey continues in the seat of a city bus, in the waiting room of a hospital, in the cafeteria at the university, in the driver’s seat of a Japan-made minivan, under a deserted overpass. I’ve come a very long way on that journey. “Mom?” As I’m staring absently at the sky, Takao calls to me. I look at my son, and I start walking. The light I saw on that day is still there, even now. Beep-beep-beep , the rice cooker announces. “Oh, the rice is done,” Shouta says dully. I answer with a noncommittal “Hmm” instead of snapping back at him. I know, you don’t have to tell me. The young woman named Rika smiles awkwardly. On the TV, they’re showing a flower-viewing party in a park somewhere. I can hear snippets of the easygoing banter in my silent kitchen. “Rika, do you want some tea?” Shouta says, trying to smooth things over. “Oh, no, I’m all right. Thanks, Shou,” she answers. Hmm. “Shou,” huh? “Would you care for some tea, Mother?” “I’m fine, thank you.” I smile at the girl brightly. She’s wearing a frilly, feminine blouse. The color’s different, but her clothes are very similar to mine today. “Oh, and also,” I add to her olive-green blouse, “I’m not your mother yet, you know.” Her smile freezes for a moment. Shouta glares at me, but she promptly, cheerfully responds, “Oh, of course that’s right, Ms. Akizuki.” Shouta pushes his glasses up and massages the inside corners of his eyes with his fingers, as if he’s about to lose it. Ding. On the table, my phone gives a pleasant chirp, and the three of us look at it expectantly. “Is that from Takao? What does he say?” I look at the text. “He’s on his way home now, but it’s going to be about an hour before he gets here.” We all heave deep, soundless sighs. We’re holding a party for Takao today, but the guest of honor is running late. He went to the Italian embassy to pick up his student visa, but apparently, a weekend at the end of March is a much more popular time than he expected. Yesterday was Takao’s high school graduation ceremony. Next month, he leaves for Italy. We started talking about getting the family together for dinner, and then it turned out that Rika, Shouta’s girlfriend, was also on good terms with Takao, so she got invited as well. This is the first time Rika and I have met. All Shouta and I do is fight, and I didn’t want to meet my son’s lover, but we’d probably be fine if Takao were here. We all gathered here on that assumption—but our key figure and buffer isn’t here yet. “He says he wants us to get started without him, but he doesn’t want us to drink too much.” As I read the rest of the text, it hits me. Of course. I can just get drunk now. “All right, if Takao says so.” Shouta seems to have had the same idea; he looks at me with relief. “Sure. Let’s start off with just a little,” I say. Eagerly, we take cans of beer out of the fridge and line them up on the table. “Yes, we’ll go slow.” Rika starts putting plastic containers she brought into the microwave. “Cheers!” We click our cans together. “Takao, wait, no! Don’t come in!” Shouta cries when my second son finally gets home and opens the kitchen door. “Oh, come on! Don’t act like I just walked in on a murder scene.” “She’s right, Shou, that’s rude. Eeeeee, Takao, it’s been forever!” “Hi, Rika.” After greeting my girl Rika with a smile, Takao looks from me to Shouta and back with exasperation. “Come on, you guys, I told you not to drink too much.” As I take another swig of the sweet potato shochu Rika brought as a present, I protest that we’re not drinking too much, although my words are running together. “So anyway, Rika, back to the subject of Shouta’s first romance. He wrote his first love letter when he was in fifth grade.” “Mm-hmm, mm-hmm.” Rika’s eyes are sparkling, Shouta’s sulking and drinking shochu nonstop, and Takao gets a cola out of the fridge and joins us at the table. “This boy, I swear. He gave the letter to me first to proofread.” “Hey, Mom, knock it off, would you?!” “I still remember what it said. In the very first line, he wrote, ‘Please marry me.’ I had no idea what to say about that.” “Yaaaaaaugh!” Shouta screams as Rika squeals. “Guess I really did just witness a murder,” Takao mutters with sympathy. “But it makes you wonder, Mother,” Rika says, slurring with utmost seriousness. “If Shou proposed as a grade schooler, why hasn’t he said anything like that this time around?” “I’m gonna go buy some liquor,” Shouta murmurs, and he slinks out of the apartment. He made a break for it, he got away. Rika and I laugh together. Exposing all of Shouta’s past embarrassments has made me feel much better. “Did Shou and Takao put these stickers here?” Rika goes to stand in the kitchen with Takao and looks at the line of sticker remnants on the pillar. It’s true that the faded stickers are hard to miss, stuck on in layers like that. Most of the pictures have peeled off, but some of them still have hearts or fruit on them. Rika’s wearing an apron, and as I gaze at her back, I wonder if having a daughter would have been like this. “Sure did. Takao, do you remember?” “A little.” Takao’s chopping something, and he doesn’t turn around. “I took over from Shouta.” “‘Took over’?” “When Mom made dinner after she came home from work, one of us would put up a reward sticker for doing a good job.” “Wow, you two were adorable!” “I’m positive Shouta’s forgotten about it, though.” I laugh. “He can’t remember anything.” As Rika set little bowls with pickled shellfish and seasonal vegetables down on the table, I tell her, “But I remember it like it was yesterday. I can still hear their little voices.” Kaclunk. We hear the steel door open, and Shouta comes back, carrying shopping bags in both hands. As he puts groceries and beer away in the fridge, he talks cheerfully with Rika. Geez! He bounced back quick. “Oh, right, we’ve got another guest on the way,” Shouta tells me, grinning. “Huh? He’s really coming?” Takao says with surprise. “Yeah,” Shouta replies. “I gave him a call, and he said he’d love to come if it wasn’t going to cause us trouble. He sounded super nervous.” “A guest? Who?” Rika and I both ask the question at the same time. “Who?” “Who do you think?” Shouta asks, drawing out the suspense. Takao is smirking. I can’t even guess. “Ta-daaaah! It’s Shimizu!” Shouta sounds incredibly proud of himself for pulling one over on me. Hmm? Shimizu? Who’s that? …What?! “Huh?! Shimizu?! What? Why? Wait, how did you two know his number?” “He gave it to us back when you ran away from home.” “But we broke up!” “I know you did. You wouldn’t stop talking about it—which means you couldn’t get him out of your head.” Takao is explaining to Rika, “He’s a graphic designer my mom dated; he’s twelve years younger than she is.” “What?! Twelve years?!” Rika yelps. “Hey! You over there! I never said you could talk about this!” “Now, now. I bet that sobered you up, didn’t it?” Shouta is really getting a kick out of this. It sure did. Shouta’s revenge was a success. Argh… I need to go fix my makeup. “Oh? Mother, where are you going?” Rika calls as I’m about to leave the kitchen. “My makeup,” I say, flustered. Shouta laughs. “He won’t be here that soon. Calm down and have a seat. We’re celebrating Takao, right? Let’s drink to him first.” “I think it’s a little late for that,” Takao says, looking disgusted. “You just want another excuse to drink, right?” “Let’s start over,” Rika chirps, setting out a variety of different types of alcohol on the table. “What’ll it be, Takao?” “Ginger ale, please.” The four of us take our places at the table. I pick up a glass of shochu, Shouta takes a can of beer, Rika raises a glass of white wine. “Congratulations!” We drink a toast with our mismatched beverages, and I remember the view of those antennas in the light. That light never fades. That single moment illuminates my path forever. “—Thanks. To a new journey,” my younger son says, filled with determination.
Chapter 9
44 min read